


so i'll paint you a clear blue sky

by mushroomcow69



Series: t's projection hurt/comfort:) [6]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Lights, Clay | Dream is Bad at Feelings (Video Blogging RPF), Comfort, Confessions, Crying, Dancing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Song Lyrics, Sympathetic Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushroomcow69/pseuds/mushroomcow69
Summary: George had never come across as a facade, as a weary coverup. He didn’t act like he was painting a smile for a discord call and devolving into something else after. But, Dream had never seen him after.OrWhen Dream goes to visit George, he could immediately tell something was wrong. He was determined to help, and George was determined to hide. But the mask has to come off eventually.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: t's projection hurt/comfort:) [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073444
Comments: 28
Kudos: 201





	so i'll paint you a clear blue sky

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ ME HI IM NOTES PLEASE READ ME BEFORE YOU READ THE FIC!!!!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING WITH A CAPITAL T- this fic is about s/a recovery. obviously, nothing is shown or described about the assault, but this is about the aftermath it has on one's emotions and mental health, and that part is described. 
> 
> [the song this fic is based off](https://youtu.be/rB4Hggrmrtc)
> 
> [the song they listen to in the living room scene](https://youtu.be/Cxtsm4jLVjk)
> 
> [let's be friends!](https://twitter.com/mushroomcow69)
> 
> this is the most vulnerable thing i've ever shared and i am genuinely scared to post it. i've written about this topic before, and something i always notice is people who haven't been through this being sympathetic, saying they didn't know it was like that. 
> 
> and so i kind of realized that with work like this, i have the ability to educate people. i hadn't even thought about it that way before, only as something to be of comfort to people who have been through this, but i can actually do something here. i have a chance to show people who don't know what it's like, what it's like. 
> 
> there are certain emotions, certain circumstances that you could never understand unless you've experienced them. and something i have seen so so so fucking much when it comes to sexual assault is people underestimating the effect it has, people not knowing how deep the hurt goes, treating it as a taboo, as something inherently uncomfortable. 
> 
> it is uncomfortable. it's dark and overbearing, and so so uncomfortable. 
> 
> and we need to talk about it. 
> 
> this fic isn't easy to read. it isn't gentle, it isn't sugar coated, it isn't kind or optimistic. it's raw and unfiltered and at times disturbing because so is sexual assault. we, as a society, filter what we say so so it's easier to hear. we censor the more serious bits of these topics because it's dark and taboo and something we /don't talk about/. 
> 
> and thats an issue. it's fucking hard to talk about, so we make it easier to talk about, but that makes the parts we cut out seem inherently shameful. 
> 
> n maybe if people knew more about what it's like, we could be better about it in general:)
> 
> ALSO 
> 
> dooooo noooooottttt take this fic as man swoops in, relationship fixes everything. i fuckin hate that trope and i wanna make it clear that's not what im doing. this fic is about trying to trust again and let people in, which is a side of recovery i struggle(d) the most with. dream isn't saving george, he isn't fixing him, george is making the decision to let himself be helped. 
> 
> im so fucking nervous about this fic okay thats it go read and comment mayhaps?

When Dream went to meet George, he expected to be meeting the George he knew. He expected bashful grins and giddy laughter, he expected sporadic bursts of energy and playful debates. Although, maybe that was unfair. Maybe it was too much to expect of George; to be _GeorgeNotFound_ in person. 

But Dream was under the impression that GeorgeNotFound _was_ George, that the two were one, that he knew who George really was. He knew his best friend. 

Or maybe he just liked to think he did. 

Obviously, he didn’t expect George to be the exact same in person, but he sure didn’t expect whatever the fuck this was either. 

When he first arrived, when George picked him up at the airport, Dream could ignore the _offness_. He could chalk the gut feeling up to nerves, he could shake off the shift in behavior as shyness. George at the airport, shadowed in light grays and tired smiles, was more or less the same as George from FaceTimes and discord calls. He was giggly and bright, even brighter in person than he had been online. Dream was met at Gate F9 with brisk London air and lethargic giggles, a familiar melodic voice to cushion the 38,000 foot fall.

But as they drove home, as Dream caught glimpses of George in the rearview mirror, he realized that something wasn’t right. He realized that there was an air of poorly stifled exhaustion surrounding his friend, that the weary look in his eyes wasn’t one Dream was familiar with, that the air seemed to fall heavy and flat onto the car upholstery. He knew George had been through a tough year, and he _knew_ that George was good at hiding things. Hell, it had taken _months_ to get George to even talk about the breakup, and even then he hadn’t _wanted_ to. 

It was borderline torturous, trying to get George to talk about it. An agonizing process of him and Sapnap begging him to spit it out, reiterating that they could _tell something was wrong_. As much as George was a Trojan Horse of smiles and shrugs, as good as he was at hiding how he felt and burying it deep down, something had to break. 

And break it did, after a few months constant badgering. They had just finished filming the latest manhunt when the competitive screeches dissolved, peeling away to reveal hushed sniffles and a boy past his breaking point.

They weren’t pleased with the discovery that George had hid an _entire_ relationship from them, but they _were_ pleased with finally knowing what the fuck was going on with their best friend. George, in true George fashion, provided only the bare minimum; the words, “I broke up with him,” and, after a bit of begging, said _him_ ’s name and a reluctant timeline. 

_Noah_ , boyfriend of nearly _two years_ without any of their knowledge, had come to a close roughly two months prior. That’s why George started acting strange, why his cheeky commentary sparsed, why he grew cryptically distant. George never brought it up again. He _adamantly refused_ to bring it up again, but there was an unspoken agreement from that night on. A silent understanding when he canceled on recordings, a mutual decision to be gentle with him, to watch him a bit closer, just in case. 

Granted, Dream had known virtually nothing about the situation, but he could assume it was just the average heartbreak. And besides, by the time he went to visit George, it had been _months_. Online George had gone back to normal. Back to the bubbly, refreshingly optimistic jokester. 

So, they thought it was over. 

_He_ thought it was over. George had never come across as a facade, as a weary coverup. He didn’t act like he was painting a smile for a discord call and devolving into something else after. But, Dream had never _seen_ him after. He was never with George once the call ended, never close enough to glimpse past the mask. Now, standing in an unfamiliar kitchen, two feet away from the mask, he was close enough. 

It would have been invisible to someone that didn’t know George inside and out. But Dream, as far as he knew (which apparently wasn’t so far), knew George, and he could tell. 

He was definitely still trying to hide it, laughing as he threw Dream a bag of chips, donning smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

There was nothing inherently concerning about the way he casually leaned against the counter, trying (and failing) to toss popcorn into his mouth, but Dream knew George. 

“Are you sure you don’t want anything else? You just flew eleven hours and you are standing at my kitchen counter eating monster munch,” George punctuated his statement with a vehement _crunch_.

Dream swallowed harshly before speaking, “No, George, I don’t think you understand. I thought British chips would suck, but this monster shit,” he gestured pointedly to the bag in his hand, “was worth the eleven hours alone.”

George furrowed his brows and leaned his elbow back onto the marble, “Are you just using me for my Monster Munch?”

“Oh, definitely.”

George tried his best to glare, but the corners of his mouth twitched up, “To be fair, Monster Munch _is_ the best crisp. You took the last bag, too.” 

At this the brunette looked to Dream and donned an incredulously childish pout.

“Tell you what,” Dream’s eyes gleamed forebodingly, “If you can reach them you can have them.” 

“You are such a dick.”

“Do you want the monster shit or not?” he extended his freakishly long arm above him and cocked an eyebrow. 

George sighed and made a show out of setting down his popcorn, shuffling across the kitchen until the tips of his shoes met Dream’s. From this close, he had to actually _look up_ to meet his friend’s eyes, which, while humiliating, did make his stomach flutter unprecedentedly. He reached up and gave a half assed grab for Dream’s wrist, _just_ out of his reach, and fell short. Obviously. So he jumped again, and then again, grabbing and hopping until he might as well have been a cat chasing a laser pointer, huffing through a smile as Dream continued to bring the bag just a little higher with each defeat. Every jump brought George forward, bit by bit until he had to stop for lack of breath, and realized he was practically leaned over Dream. Their chests were pushed against each other, his fingers wrapped far too tightly, far too possessively around a tan wrist.

He was going to move back. He _fully_ intended on moving back. But Dream’s shallow breath was warm against his forehead, and his eyes seemed far too colorful to, in good conscience, look away from. It was only minutes later, when George felt his chest rise as the taller apprehensively cleared his throat, that he snapped out of it and jumped back with a bashful apology.

Dream chuckled, more a restrained huff, and all but whispered, “It’s okay.” 

“Anyways,” George stepped back, a hand coming up to rub the nape of his neck, “You’re in the room on the right if you want to unpack or anything.”

Dream, who could take a hint, gave a small nod and reached down to grab his backpack. He glanced to George on his way back up, met with a sheepish smile, eyes swimming with something he couldn’t quite place. 

“I’m gonna,” He searched George’s eyes for a break in facade, to no avail, “go take a nap or something,” The kitchen tiles creaked beneath their feet, “Long trip.” 

George hummed understandingly and Dream shuffled out of the kitchen, leaving nothing behind him but a half empty bag of Monster Munch and George. 

One last time at his door, Dream turned around to steal another glance at George, just in time to see him sigh sharply. The boy’s shoulders dropped, as if they held the weight of the world on them, as if he had been fighting to keep them up, and Dream could _see_ his front fall away, fluttering flatly to the cold tiled floor, revealing a demeanor he’d never seen.

Dream knew a mask slipping when he saw one. 

\---

As much as Dream and George had practically created their own time zone over the years, the adjustment was still brutal. The blind darkness of 3 AM couldn’t have been later than 10 PM for Dream. So, he slinked from unfamiliar sheets, past an unfamiliar door, through an unfamiliar hallway, in search of water. Despite spending the better half of the night mulling, he still hadn’t decided if something was _definitely_ wrong with George, but he expected it would take more than five jetlagged hours to come to a definitive conclusion anyway. What he _didn’t_ expect was to, over the rim of his glass at 3 AM, see a rough silhouette just outside the living room window. 

His first thought, as anyone’s would be, was of that scene from _Gremlins_ with the person sitting on the wing of the plane, and he knew how _that_ turned out. His second thought was that there probably was not a Gremlin outside George’s window, and that maybe he should just go check. He went with the latter. 

As he approached the window, it became increasingly clear that the figure was in fact just George. There was something vaguely comforting about the familiar outline of his hair as he sat on the roof, curled into himself with his arms wrapped around his shins, even if he was staring catatonically into the night. 

He seemed too peaceful to disturb, too somber to ignore, and too ethereal to approach. But what was Dream’s pretension if not to tempt the Fates? 

The Fates, evidently, were not in the mood to be tempted. The second Dream reached under the windowsill, George snapped his head around, and he could _see_ the mask go back on in real time. But for a second, /just a second/, Dream caught a glimpse of George as he was turning around, before he’d realized anyone else was there. 

The pure desolation in his eyes, even if only for that split second, was more than enough to give Dream the impression that this may be bigger than he thought. 

But now the facade was back, and George was on his feet, pushing past Dream to climb back through the window. 

“I was about to go inside,” he muttered almost inaudibly, refusing to meet his friend’s eyes as he strode by, leaving nothing but cold wind and empty darkness in his wake. 

So, Dream decided, there was _definitely_ something wrong. 

\---

The next day rolled in lazily, finding the two boys curled on opposite ends of the couch with dumplings, gentle music from George’s phone softening the air around them. The apartment seemed different now that Dream was acquainted with it. He started to notice the Christmas lights hung sloppily above the windows, the post-its on the fridge, the picture frames adorned in George’s smile.

And that was the thing. George’s smile. Just like that, George was smiling again, and Dream couldn’t try to figure out what was wrong with him because there _wasn’t anything_ wrong with him anymore. The last time Dream saw George, he was despondent on the edge of a roof. Now, not even twenty hours later, he was all cozied up, smiling over room temperature Chinese food. 

Of course, Dream knew better. He’d quickly adjusted to the ways of In Person George; the way he hid his humanity until he couldn’t anymore, the way that it was only _after_ he’d drained all his energy that Dream got to see the other side of him. He knew how this worked, he was no stranger to the game of secrecy.

But George was one hell of a player.

It was like he majored in Hiding Your Feelings during university, like he spent his young life dedicated to the art of being emotionally stunted. Dream had no idea how, but George had undeniably mastered his craft. And Dream, to say the least, didn’t exactly major in Finding Your Friend’s Secrets. He majored in math. 

George had found refuge from the prying eyes in being _very enthralled_ by his food, keeping himself locked on his lap even though Dream was sure he could feel his gaze. 

“If you stare at that dumpling any harder I think it’ll cremate.”

George chuckled airily from under a chopstick, “What, do I have superpowers now?”

“I dunno,” Dream threw his hands up in surrender, “I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

The sun had just begun to set outside George’s windows, shrouding the living room in soft yellows. The sun set fast in the UK, is what Dream had discovered. At least that’s what it felt like, as the blonde watched shadows slide down from cracks in the ceiling, and pan out from the furniture. 

“Honestly, you could tell me you _are_ Peter Parker and I wouldn’t be surprised.” Dream glanced at the quickly dimming windows, “I don’t think anything you say could surprise me at this point.” 

George didn’t respond. 

The song changed, forgotten music suddenly less forgettable in comparison to the hollow silence.

The smaller gazed at his lap for a second longer, eyes fixed on a spot of dust weaved into his throw blanket, before inhaling just short of sharply and looking up to Dream. 

He methodically unfolded his legs from under him and stood up, blanket falling from his shoulders, “Let me change the song real quick.” 

Dream furrowed his eyebrows, “Why?” He listened for a second, “It’s pretty. I like it.” 

“It’s sad.” 

“Doesn’t have to be,” Dream shrugged, “It can just be pretty.” 

“The lyrics are sad.” 

Upon tuning further into the song, Dream couldn’t really deny that they _were_ sad lyrics. He stood up anyway. With just a few strides he stood next to George, socks sinking minutely into the carpet. 

“Oh come on, it’s pretty!” 

George huffed out a laugh and threw up his hands, “What do you want me to do, fuckin’ waltz with you?” 

Soft sounds flooded the room, words flowing to them as they left the phone speaker.

Dream grinned. 

“Yes.” 

_ Pitch black, Pale blue, It was a stained glass variation of the truth _

“What?”

The sun had all but set at this point, the scattered Christmas lights sending tinted shadows down the wall, cascading sleepy yellows over the dense air. 

Dream grabbed George by the wrist, “Yes. You are going to dance with me.” 

_ And I felt empty handed. _

“No, I’m not.” 

“You don’t really have a say in the matter,” Dream smiled, “we’re dancing.” 

George looked from his wrist, to Dream’s eyes, to the leftover food on the sofa, and sighed. 

“Fine.”

_ You let me set sail with cheap wood, so I patched up every leak that I could _

Dream tried to hide it, but George could see the way his eyes lit up. 

He hoped Dream couldn’t see the way he did.

“Okay,” the blonde ran a hand through his hair, “So, I had to take _Ballroom_ in twelfth grade.”

George stared blankly. 

“What I’m telling you is I’m basically a professional.” 

A scoff. “For some reason, I doubt you’re a professional dancer.”

“What, you’re the only one who can have surprises?”

Dream pulled gently on the wrist he was still holding, dragged it up until a pale hand settled featherlight on his shoulder.

_ ’Til the blame grew too heavy _ .

“That hand goes there,” Dream murmured, voice shuddering the fragile atmosphere, “And that one goes here,” a hand wrapped around George’s other wrist, pulling it just as gently downwards, landing gingerly on Dream’s hip.

George’s eyes, which had previously been trailing each movement, snapped up to meet Dream’s. 

_ Pitch black, pale blue, these wild oceans shake what’s left of me loose _

“Where do yours go?” George cringed at how doe-eyed he sounded.

“Right,” Dream’s hands settled slowly, _oh so slowly_ , around George’s torso, touch so cautious he barely felt it, “There.” 

Their eyes hadn’t left each other, gazes laser sharp. Dream waited. One second, two seconds, he searched the other’s eyes for discomfort, three seconds, and he slowly closed his fingers around George’s torso. 

_ Just to hear me cry mercy. _

“Now you dance.”

Miraculously, their feet moved without colliding. George felt his socks slide over the rug, he felt warmth fly up his torso, spreading like wildfire, sparked from where Dream touched him.

It started wary and slow, their eyes never breaking, movements never decisive. They wandered around the living room, turning here and there, cracking a smile once or twice, the gentle music swaying with them.

_ I’m only honest when it rains _

It was clumsy and awkward, and could barely pass for dancing, but before they knew it, they had grown confident. They didn’t even feel that they’d started moving /together/, breathing in sync with each other. They didn’t even realize they had learned each other's movements, become fluent in each other's body language, and began to move in perfect tandem. 

_ If I time it right, the thunder breaks when I open my mouth. _

But, whether they realized it or not, they were gaining speed, gaining boldness, cracking smiles, beginning to move with unhindered confidence. 

And they still hadn’t broken eye contact. The room was spinning around George, the rug was crimping under his feet, and all he could see were Dream’s eyes. They were the only thing that hadn’t blurred, the only focal point amongst the smudging walls and yellow lights. It was almost like he could see through the marbled green, like he was _really_ looking at someone for the first time, _really_ seeing someone without any filters between them.

Shifting in Dream’s arms, staring into Dream’s eyes, he almost felt safe. 

_ I want to tell you, but I don’t know how. _

Dream must have felt it too, because the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, and somehow George knew what he was about to do long before he did it. 

His arm flew from George’s waist to his hand, entwined their fingers, and pulled up.

George’s face spread into a grin as he watched Dream bring their arms up and ducked under them.

_ I’m only honest when it rains _

And then Dream was turning his wrist, swirling George’s arm above him, and George was _actually_ spinning. 

He was spinning, and spinning, and he was dizzy but he didn’t care, and he was beaming wider than he had in months, and he was _still spinning_. 

_ An open book with a torn out page, and my ink’s run out. _

When they began to slow George’s chest was heaving, his cheeks flushed from all the wind, aching from all the grinning.

He skidded to a stop and huffed a breathy laugh against Dream’s chest. 

It wasn’t until he opened his eyes that he realized how close the spin had left them, that he could feel Dream’s heard pound against his, see his chest rise and fall. 

George looked up and his breath caught in his throat. He could see every freckle on Dream’s cheeks, he could count every eyelash, he could _feel_ the heat radiating from his face. 

He could feel Dream’s breath against his lips.

_ I want to love you but I don’t know how. _

And maybe it was the post-exercise adrenaline, maybe it was the fog of the encroaching night, but George was looking into Dream’s eyes again. 

And Dream was looking into his. 

And he was probably just imagining it, but it felt like the breath was inching closer to him.

He looked at Dream, down to Dream’s lips, and back up at Dream.

Or maybe he was inching closer to the breath. 

Dream sucked in a sharp breath. He knew that look.

Maybe everything else about the brunette was a mystery, but this wasn’t. 

George wanted to kiss him. 

He leaned in. 

_ I don’t know how. _

Then, George blinked. He blinked, and every trace of _George_ drained from his eyes, every curve in his face turned sharp and shadowed. 

Just like that, with one blink, George was gone again, and Dream was plunged back into the numb secrecy. 

He broke his eyes away from Dream’s and vehemently shook his head, like he was trying to snap himself out of something. 

“That was fun,” George muttered, and walked right into his room without another word, leaving Dream with nothing but a closing door and empty arms. 

_ No, I don’t know how. _

\---

Considering Dream’s verdict on the UK sun’s speed, the rest of the afternoon should _not_ have passed that slow. There might as well have been eons between their sunset dance and the tired chime of midnight. Maybe it was loneliness that hindered the night, maybe anxiety, or maybe it was the curiosity that had wormed into Dream’s brain, weaved its way into his veins. Curiosity that seeped like black tar from the crack under George’s door, pooled across the wooden floors and flooded his senses. He’d heard of people going insane in solitude and never thought much of it; he was fine with being alone. But now, faced with a closed door and chronic silence, he understood it a bit more. Solitude only hurts when you _can’t have_ company. 

Normally Dream was completely fine spending the rest of the night by himself, happy to even, but now it was unbearable. Loneliness isn’t as much fun when you don’t have a choice, he was slowly realizing. Especially when the lack of choice was shackled by nothing more than a stupid bedroom door. The slab of wood might as well have been a brick wall, and George had never felt so far away. 

Really, there was nothing _stopping_ Dream from walking across the room and knocking on the door. There was nothing _stopping_ him from walking up to George and asking him what the fuck is wrong. There was nothing _stopping_ him from shaking the other by his shoulders and _forcing_ him to spit it out. 

Obviously, he wasn’t going to do any of that. 

Instead, he was going to sit on the couch and wait. Wait for the door to open, wait for _something_ to emerge from the eerie silence sat behind it, for some hint of whatever _the fuck_ George could be doing in that goddamn room. 

It wasn’t until hours into the night that the gods gifted him with a sign of life, albeit a concerning one. He noticed it immediately; even a quiet cough would be a stark change from the stagnant silence he’d been drowning in. He’d have to be stupid to miss the rushed breaths, the muted sobs, the wet sniffles. 

On one hand, Dream _knew_ he was right now, that there was 100% something more going on here. On the other hand, it almost physically hurt to hear George like that, to feel the pain in his quiet cries, to see him _actually_ upset for the first time. Clay had been, and still was, holding out hope that whatever it could be wasn’t _that_ bad, that George wasn’t in any _serious_ trouble. The muffled sobs floating through the walls sufficiently threw that thought to the wolves. All he could do was hope it wasn’t as bad as it could be.

And, sure, Dream had no idea how to help, no idea what George was even _like_ when upset, no idea what the fuck was going on, but he physically _could not_ sit there and listen to his best friend cry. 

So, he went and knocked on the door. 

The second his knuckles touched the wood there was a sharp gasp, and George immediately fell pin drop silent.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Dream’s hand, still in a fist against the door, shook slightly, “I know you’re in there.” 

The silence, although still fearful, turned contemplative, and after a few seconds Dream heard shuffling and saw the door crack open ever so slightly. 

He could barely make out George’s eye through the tiny slit, barely breaking the surface of the apartment’s darkened halls.

“What’s wrong?” Dream didn’t think he’d ever tried this hard to sound gentle, or ever softened his voice this much. 

The crack inched open a little more, and he could just see George standing behind the door, clearly exhausted, hunched over like Dream had never seen him. Their eyes met, and for a second, it was almost like George was considering it. Considering opening his mouth, considering saying something that wasn’t a lie, considering letting the mask slip. 

His eyes scanned Dream’s like he was gearing up to say something, 

He seemed to decide on the words and opened his mouth to speak, and Dream could have cried with relief, but then he blinked. 

Just like he had before in the living room, shrouded in Christmas lights and sunsets, he blinked, and George was gone. And the fact that Dream’d seen it happen before didn’t make it any less jarring when his eyes turned glassy and mouth snapped shut. 

_ So close. _

George took a step further into his room, sinking under the darkness again, and straightened his back. 

“Nothing.” 

And just like that, the door was closed again, and all Dream could do was sigh and whisper the word “ _progress_ ” like a prayer. 

The plan was to give George the space he needed, wait until he was ready, step back. But then it was noon and the air in his room hadn’t even stirred. And granted, Dream wasn’t necessarily a patient person, but he’d _been_ patient. He’d waited, kept quiet, pushed down his worry until it was practically spilling out his ears. 

So, when George _finally_ left his room, Dream couldn’t stop himself from jumping up from the couch and meeting him at the door. 

George looked tired. The kind of tired that he couldn’t hide, the kind of tired that seeped through his skin, pooled under his eyes and rested on his shoulders. The kind of tired Dream could assume he’d been all week, only pushing past the surface now that he wasn’t trying to hide it. 

“Hey,” Dream’s fingers fell to card the hem of his sweatpants, “were you okay last night?” 

George’s eyes raised from the floor, brows flying up when he realized Dream was there, furrowing once he’d processed the question. Dream watched cogs turn behind tired brown eyes, reached for them and watched them slip just past his fingertips.

“Yeah, I was just tired.” 

Dream’s mouth fell open, stuttering apprehensively before, “Hey, George?”

George, who’d already slid by Dream and was halfway to the bathroom, stopped in his tracks, a silent permission to continue. 

“I know you,” Dream turned around and found himself talking to George’s back, “I know there’s- something going on,” George’s shoulders tightened, “and I don’t- you don’t have to tell me anything, obviously,” Dream willed himself to figure out what _the fuck he was saying_ , “But I, um- I’m here for you.”

George pivoted ever so slowly, eyes fixing on Dream’s shoes.

“And uh- If, yesterday, I like,” his hands wrung nervously at his chest, “came onto you or anything, I’m, uh-” Brown eyes met green, and _God_ , Dream wished he could read them, “I’m really sorry.” 

Dream took the silence as queue to keep talking, “I might just be reading it wrong, but it, uh,” George’s brows furrowed, “it seemed like I made you uncomfortable, when I-” Dream could see something akin to confusion, “y’know,” his eyebrows furrowed further, mouth open in thought, and _oh God he is not happy please stop talking right now_. 

Dream grimaced, “Anyway,” George’s head tilted, “I just want you to know that I’m here, uh,” Dream sucked a breath in the tune of _this is a disaster what the fuck are you saying_ , “If- or when you’re ready. I’m here.” 

It took a solid ten seconds to work up the courage to look back to George’s eyes, and when he did, Dream was met with that same expression. Eyebrows even more creased, mouth hung open, clouded by confusion, or anger, or sadness, or _something_ that he couldn’t even try to identify. 

And Dream didn’t have anything left to say, so he just stood there and waited for George to come to whatever conclusion he was barreling towards, gritting his teeth and shielding his eyes for the impact. 

George searched Dream’s eyes inscrutably, and seemed to decide on whatever it was. 

And then he was leaning in far too close for it to be an accident, and Dream barely had time to close his eyes before lips were on his, and fire flew down his spine, and _holy shit this was actually happening_. 

George tasted like sugared strawberries and saccharine honey, smelled like fallen cherry blossoms and melted caramel, and felt like the first breath of air after a cannonball into the deep end.

Dream felt a smile against his lips, fingers carding into his hair with a contented sigh as he smiled back. Gentle wind slipped through the cracked living room window, pooling at their feet and swirling around their ankles. Dream reached out to wrap his arm around George’s waist and pull him closer, finally hold him and never let go. The second his hands met the boy’s torso, George was gasping sharply like he’d been hurt, and jumping back like he was in danger.

The blonde felt his blood go cold and snapped open his eyes, immediately stepping back in concern. George seemed genuinely _afraid_ , glancing around the room with wide eyes, frozen and quivering like a scared rabbit. 

“Are you okay?” he reached out a hand, and George flinched away from it, “Did I hurt you?” The brunette managed a shake of his head, backing into himself, and Dream had _never_ been this confused.

“What happened?” Dream could hear the panic wracking his voice. George just responded with another head shake, this one more frantic. 

“Is it the same thing? As what’s been bothering you?”

This time he was met with the smallest nod, almost imperceptible. 

“Okay,” Dream let out a breath of shallow relief, “Okay. Can you tell me?” 

An even more frantic shake. 

“That’s fine! That’s fine,” his hands were at his side, up in surrender, “Is this- is it about Noah?” 

George _literally_ flinched at the name, an adamant yes if Dream had ever seen one. 

“Okay! Is it,” a thought crept into Dream’s mind, and he felt his heart drop, “Is it because I touched you?”

A nod. 

His breath hitched, “Did he- why would you,” 

George’s voice was barely a whisper, catching mournfully on the edge of his throat

“Anything it took to make him stay.” 

The air flew from Dream’s lungs, and it was all he could do not to double over then and there. Surely, it wasn’t what it sounded like. That couldn’t happen, not to his best friend, not to George. George wouldn’t have let that happen without telling them. He would’ve asked for help. They would know. 

But, it made sense. As much as the thought made bile rise in the back of his throat, it made sense. Why George didn’t tell them about Noah when they were dating, why he refused to elaborate on the breakup, why he had started falling deadly silent at the crude jokes he used to laugh at. 

Why he flinched when Dream touched his waist. 

_Fuck_. 

In the time it took Dream to have a sickening epiphany, George had fled to the living room window, and slipped through. His silhouette sat stagnant on the roof, just like it had the first night, but now it was different. Now Dream knew, his stomach churned with what he knew, and all he could do was slip through the window after him and pray he’d think of _something_ to say.

If it weren’t for the nervous twiddle of his fingers, Dream might not have even known George was human. He looked like a statue sitting on the roof, legs dangling over the edge. A vignette of secret pain and silent screams, carved delicately into marble and crumbling asphalt. He watched George’s feet sway, heavy and inattentive, swirling the chill air, and tried to match his own to the rhythm. Dream sat down beside him. Even the wind had fallen silent, the trees had stilled. The entire night waited with bated breath and Dream had absolutely _no idea_ what to do. The fabric on their shoulders brushed against each other. 

“When he,” George’s uneasy whisper was deafening, “When he would,” he took a shaky breath, scoffed humorlessly at himself, “When _it would happen_ , I had this thing I would do, where I’d just, like,” he paused, searched for the word, “go dormant.” 

Dream resisted the overwhelming urge to look to George. He kept his head straight, kept his eyes on the indistinct bushes below them, like the brunette was some frightened animal that would fly away at the first stir. 

“It helped,” George’s words were low and calculated, “I mean, it took a while to master it, but I could kind of _detach from myself_ , if that makes sense. Go somewhere else, somewhere dull and colorless, somewhere that wasn’t that _fucking bed_. So I didn’t have to feel it, so I could,” his voice fell to a broken whisper, “so I could just lie there.”

Dream’s brain stuttered. George continued. 

“And it worked, it was-” he gestured minutely towards Dream, “I could come back after and play games, I could join the calls and streams and act like nothing was wrong,” Dream felt something rise in the back of his throat at the thought of George joining their call like that, at the thought that _none of them_ knew. He wondered how many of their conversations had been directly after, how many times George had to shake it off, how many of their laughs had been through tears, how many times they didn’t notice. He had a feeling he didn’t want the answer.

“Because,” George continued, “because that wasn’t the same George as when it happened. Actual George wasn’t there when it happened. Actual George would just come back once it was over. That wasn’t the George that was hiding everything, that wasn’t the George that had just been-” he fell silent, “that spent  _ every single fucking night _ -” the words trailed off.

“George-” Dream managed only to be cut off almost immediately, as if George couldn’t even hear him.

“But I can’t,” he took a breath, so weak and shaky that Dream winced, “I  _ can’t come back _ .”

Dream could feel the air from all the way up on the roof, he could hear the leaves flutter in tandem with the wind. He wished it would sweep him away too, just for a second, just until he was far enough away that he could pretend this wasn’t happening. Until the wind brought him someplace pretty, someplace where his best friend hadn’t been so unfathomably violated, someplace where he would never _need_ to know what the fuck to do in this situation. 

But alas, he was not a leaf, and, although he was fragile enough to pass for one, neither was George. 

“It’s been _months_ , Dream, and I _can’t come back_. I’m still stuck wherever I would go when it happened. I’m not here, I’m never here anymore, it’s like,” George flexed his fingers, and Dream could see how they shook, “It’s like it’s always happening.”

Shaking against the lightless sky, legs dangling over the edge, George seemed so intangible, so vulnerable, the polar opposite of the George they’d known. Dream almost wanted to reach out and grab him, shield him, like if he didn’t hold on tight enough the boy would slip right through the asphalt and flutter to the ground below. But looking at George, Dream got the feeling that even if he did reach out, his hands would go right through him, that he’d turn to smoke beneath his fingers. 

“I’ve been colorless for _so long_ , Dream.” 

All too suddenly, George was no longer a statue, he was whipping his head up to look at Dream, who almost broke down on the spot when their gazes met. When he saw just how exhausted George was, just how glassy and empty his eyes had become. 

“But you,” George flitted over Dream’s eyes, like he would find his answer behind them, “After,” he released a shaky breath, “after Noah, I swore I’d never lose control. I swore I’d never trust again, but it’s—“ It was almost too much, seeing him cry like this and not knowing how to fix it, “It’s _so hard_ not to see color, Dream. It’s so hard and this,” he gestured between them, “ _This_ is so tempting, but I’m _so scared_. I can’t afford to-” his breath caught. “I can’t-”

Dream’s body finally caught up, and the first thing it did was /scream/ at him to get George the fuck away from that roof. 

“Hey, hey,” he lunged forward, stopped himself, realized that he didn’t exactly know the protocol for comforting George. George was good at hiding his emotions, so good Dream, and everyone else, for that matter, had been under the impression that maybe he just _didn’t have any_. Dream hadn’t been thrown into the deep end, he had _just discovered_ water and then dove directly into The Mariana Trench. 

“Can I,” his hands sat anxiously at his sides, “Can I touch you?” 

George gave an almost imperceptible nod and Dream put a hand on his shoulder, gingerly pulling him onto his feet. 

“It’s cold out here. Let’s go inside, yeah?” Even Dream was surprised at how stable his voice was, how much it sounded like he knew what he was doing. 

George gave a small hum, followed by a nod, and Dream felt his shoulders fall in relief once they clambered back through the window, once George’s feet hit the solid floor. 

The rest of the night passed quietly. Not calmly, not happily, but quietly. As much as he wanted to make _everything better and now_ , the quiet turned out to be just what Dream needed. He spent the remainder of the afternoon, through the night, to the sunrise in complete silence. Trying to process what the fuck was going on, wrap his head around it all, accompanied only by the intermittent whistles of wind and the faded Christmas lights. 

By the time dawn rolled around, he definitely had more of a grip on it. He didn’t _have a grip_ , by any means, but he’d managed to sort out the less muddled of his emotions. When George slipped from his room in the morning, Dream was prepared with eye bags heavier than his luggage and the rough skeleton of something akin to a speech. 

He stepped off the couch and walked to George, finding the two of them in the same place they were yesterday. Stood across from each other in the hall, right where they were when they kissed. But now George looked terrified, and Dream could feel his hands shake. 

“Hey, I,” his voice was unsteady, unsure, “I know I don’t really know… what to say, or how to help, I’m-” he breathed a sharp sigh, “I’m no good at this stuff.”

George huffed a humorless chuckle, and Dream continued.

“I just,” Jesus, he hadn’t been this nervous since highschool, “I can’t _imagine_ what you’ve been through, George. And I don’t- I don’t want you to feel like you have to worry about me, or _this_ ,” he swallowed nervously, “whatever _this_ is, I just want you to know that, uh. You’re the only thing that matters here- not-” he whistled out a breath and closed his eyes for a second, “Whatever you need. That’s- that’s what I’m trying to say.” 

And just like yesterday, the expression was back, and Dream couldn’t even try to know how George was feeling. He was too good at being cryptic, even if Dream had adjusted to the learning curve. 

“You don’t want this?” 

His voice was so small, and Dream felt his eyes go wide, “What? No! No, I just,” he ran an exasperated hand through his hair, “I don’t- I don’t want you to have to do anything you don’t want to do. Ever again. And I don’t _know_ what you want, or- or _who_ you want, and I’m so scared I’m gonna say the wrong thing or I won’t be able to help, or I’ll do something that triggers you, and-” he breathed a shaky sigh, “I just want you to do what you want so-”

George’s voice was loud, just south of a yell, cutting Dream off immediately.

“ _I want you_!” 

Silence sat heavy between them.

“I want you. I’m not- I’m not some victim, I’m not incapable of a normal relationship because of him, I-” George sighed sharply and looked straight into Dream’s eyes, “I know what I want. I want you. But I can’t let myself trust yet, and I _don’t know why_ , because it’s been _so long_ , and I want to _so bad_. But I just- I need to think,” he braced his hands out by his chest and took a breath, “I need to think.” 

\---

So that’s just what he did.

For the rest of the day, George sat on the roof and thought, and Dream knew better than to disturb. Dream knew to sit inside and keep to himself, to wait until hours later, once the sun had begun to go down, to slip onto the roof with featherlight feet, and approach the silhouette he’d become so familiar with. 

“Hey,” the asphalt dug tiny bumps into his feet as he walked to George.

“Hey.” 

Dream pointed to the sky, clouds gone pink under the sunset, blue fading into the horizon, “Can you see that? The color, I mean. Do you see it?” 

George followed his finger to the sky, looked out, and shook his head.

“Still colorless.” 

“Can I touch you?”

George nodded, and Dream dropped onto his knees behind him, wrapping his arms around small shoulders, pulling George into a gentle hug. They stayed there for a few seconds, before Dream leaned his chin onto George’s shoulder, teasing, “How about now? Any color?”

George chuckled softly, lolling his head back to rest against Dream’s, “Little better now.” 

The sun set further with each second, pink turning to purple, blue turning to gray, and the telephone lines swayed with the wind. The kind of wind that only blew at sunset, just short of cold, just south of windy. 

“I can’t trust you, Dream.”

Dream nodded, and George kept his head facing forward, “I just can’t. I’m too scared. But,” a gentle exhale, “but I like what I see, when I’m with you. I like the colors. And I think,” each word was deliberate, slow, “I think maybe it’s worth it. The fear. I think maybe I can let myself be scared, if it means I get the colors. If it means I get you.”

The hold around George’s shoulders tightened. 

“I don’t want to be colorless anymore. And I know it’ll hurt, and take time, but I think maybe it’ll be worth the pain. To feel something other than numb, to _really_ come back, really let someone see, even if it’s just one person. 

I don’t think I can try to keep control like that anymore, by locking everyone out. I think I’ll just be lonely. I think if I start with one person, and go from there, _maybe_ I could trust again, at some point, if you’re really patient with me.

“I think it’s worth losing control if it means I get to have you.” 

George ripped his eyes from the sky, and turned to look at Dream. The sunset echoed onto his face, shrouding his cheeks in pink, painting his face in color. George smiled.

“If you’ll have me, that is.” 

Dream laughed, and met George’s eyes. 

And lips were on his, and a chill wind ran up his burned spine. And it tasted like sugared strawberries and honey, smelled like fresh air and sunsets, and felt like waltzes and faded Christmas lights. 

The mask fell to the roof with a clatter, and Dream had never felt so lucky to see behind it. 


End file.
